“No; there wasn’t.  Banneker stopped it.”

“Ban?”

“Do you mean to say that you knew nothing of this, Mrs. Eyre?” he said, the wonder in his face answering the bewilderment in hers.  “Didn’t Banneker tell you?”

“Never a word.”

“No; I suppose he wouldn’t,” ruminated the veteran.  “That would be like Ban—­the old Ban,” he added sadly.  “Mrs. Eyre, I loved that boy,” he broke out, his stern and somber face working.  “There are times even now when I can scarcely make myself believe that he did what he did.”

“Wait,” pleaded Io.  “How did he stop The Searchlight?”

“By threatening Bussey with an expose that would have blown him out of the water.  Blackmail, if you like, Mrs. Eyre, and not of the most polite kind.”

“For me,” whispered Io.

“He held that old carrion-buzzard, Bussey, up at the muzzle of The Patriot as if it were a blunderbuss.  It was loaded to kill, too.  And then,” pursued Edmonds, “he paid the price.  Marrineal got out his little gun and held him up.”

“Held Ban up?  What for?  How could he do that?  All this is a riddle to me, Mr. Edmonds.”

“Do you think you really want to know?” asked the other with a touch of grimness.  “It won’t be pleasant hearing.”

“I’ve got to know.  Everything!”

“Very well.  Here’s the situation.  Banneker points his gun, The Patriot, at Bussey.  ‘Be good or I’ll shoot,’ he says.  Marrineal learns of it, never mind how.  He points his gun at Ban.  ‘Be good, or I’ll shoot,’ says he.  And there you are!”

“But what was his gun?  And why need he threaten Ban?”

“Why, you see, Mrs. Eyre, about that time things were coming to an issue between Ban and Marrineal.  Ban was having a hard fight for the independence of his editorial page.  His strongest hold on Marrineal was Marrineal’s fear of losing him.  There were plenty of opportunities open to a Banneker.  Well, when Marrineal got Ban where he couldn’t resign, Ban’s hold was gone.  That was Marrineal’s gun.”

“Why couldn’t he resign?” asked Io, white-lipped.

“If he quit The Patriot he could no longer hold Bussey, and The Searchlight could print what it chose.  You see?”

“I see,” said Io, very low.  “Oh, why couldn’t I have seen before!”

“How could you, if Ban told you nothing?” reasoned Edmonds.  “The blame of the miserable business isn’t yours.  Sometimes I wonder if it’s anybody’s; if the newspaper game isn’t just too strong for us who try to play it.  As for The Searchlight, I’ve since got another hold on Bussey which will keep him from making any trouble.  That’s what I wanted to tell you.”

“Oh, what does it matter!  What does it matter!” she moaned.  She crossed to the window, laid her hot and white face against the cool glass, pressed her hands in upon her temples, striving to think connectedly.  “Then whatever he did on The Patriot, whatever compromises he yielded to or—­or cowardices—­” she winced at the words—­“were done to save his place; to save me.”